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Have you heard the myth of men that predict their own death like a score? |
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How could one depict such a prophecy from a world so scarred? |
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To think, they picked the one of one million ways to disappear. |
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That's something else... |
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Somehow this thought was hanging above my head. |
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For weeks, plus days when I wasn't really me. |
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Infatuated with a dark, looming end. |
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I feared company. |
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I hear sirens all night for miles and I'm sure we can't die from nothing. |
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I can't be afraid of subtleties out of my control. |
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It's not saying goodbye that makes me toss and turn, It's the thought that I won't. |
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There's only so much room in our graves, only so much that we can take with us. |
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How deep is the plan to take me under after wronging another? |
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Swinging machines brush my heavy shoulders as they carve into mother. |
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And now a thought is hanging above my head. |
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I will never know. |
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(There's an illness about. Bodies all give out.) |
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I'm not afraid to go, but I fear to leave on a bad note. |
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Our souls are tortured, dreaming morbid dreams 'til they turn on themselves. |
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I got here ok for someone who was headed somewhere else. |
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This must mean something. |
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This all must mean something. |
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I don't need it all mapped out, but I do wish that I knew where not to dwell. |
